


Morning's Song

by ArtisticVicu



Series: RPApril Extravaganza 2019 [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Mornings, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:07:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23562049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtisticVicu/pseuds/ArtisticVicu
Summary: Event Summary:Inside all of you I can see an incredible poet waiting to fly free. So let that poet out and free to run. You have 28 days to make your rhyme. It can be about love or the beach, dogs, mountains, hockey, or a ripe, juicy peach. Guidelines? Restrictions?- there are none. So go ahead, take a risk and try; spread your pretty poet wings and fly.
Series: RPApril Extravaganza 2019 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695238





	Morning's Song

Sunrise.  
  
Something wakes,  
be it the birds or the trees, or even a fox in a grove.  
Something wakes  
and in turn other wake as well.  
  
High speed rubber against concrete,  
asphalt  
engines that power that speed,  
a white noise like rushing water as the wind dances among the trees.  
  
Everything wakes  
except for those that night requires,  
Everything wakes;  
even the brooks and trees and grass.  
  
Morning is here,  
consistent,  
the sound of distant voices as others start to move about the day,  
all of it a part of a larger melody.  
  
It's shattered.  
  
That peace,  
that joy,  
the simpleness of morning,  
it's gone.  
  
Screaming,  
shouting,  
there are sirens in the distance,  
metal contraptions warped beyond recognition.  
  
It's nothing severe,  
just a bad morning.  
Someone following too close,  
someone distracted.  
  
But there are worse.  
Things that even distance worsens  
where the tears burn as hot as any fire  
and the wails of loss ring louder than the morning's song.  
  
Hollow.  
  
For there isn't a word to best describe the lack of sound that comes,  
that one where there is no hope,  
no desire,  
where words are forced to be silent.  
  
Careful feet,  
careful tongues,  
the soft footfall of unease,  
all of it buried beneath what the morning brings.  
  
Or can it be  
that those hollow moments,  
those instances where there is no sound,  
are moments of peace and not mourning?  
  
How far does life stretch?  
Is it good?  
Is it bad?  
Or are the silent sounds always so hollow?  
  
They're not.  
  
Sometimes a breath is needed,  
a moment to stop  
and reflect,  
to let life arrive on its own.  
  
There is a strength in that silence,  
a power that some desire,  
and some keep  
hidden away in the sounds of morning.  
  
A pot brewing in an empty house.  
One body moves about.  
But there is no pain nor sorrow  
as that one body tries to wake.  
  
There is strength in that silence.  
It is not the loudest.  
But despite how quiet it may be,  
it will always be a part  
  
of the Morning's Song.


End file.
